Tin Soldiers

by Michael Farmer

  “Sir, both the Madinah and the Hamourabi report incoming missiles strikes,” the communications officer reported. “They cannot confirm the extent of their losses, but they appear to be significant. The primary targets have been the tank and mechanized infantry battalions.”

  General al-Tikriti nodded. “Very well. Are they moving?”

  “Yes, sir. As we speak.”

  “It is time we did the same. . . .”

  The now-familiar sound of another incoming American missile interrupted the general. This one somehow sounded different . . . higher pitched.

  The missile that detonated over the Corps headquarters wasn’t one of the new Block II ATACMS containing brilliant antitank submunitions. The Block II missiles were being utilized against the mechanized divisions to the south. This missile was the first of a series of the trusty old Block I variety to be fired at the Republican Guard’s command and control center. Each contained nine hundred fifty baseball-size bomblets. Designated the M74, the antipersonnel/antimateriel bomblets struck the command center with devastating effect.

  The Southern Corps headquarters area looked like a scene from Dante’s Inferno. Within the primary command center, General al-Tikriti crawled toward the radio linking him to his division commanders. Because he was badly burned, every inch of progress he made was torture. Al-Tikriti remembered reading somewhere that burn victims did not feel much pain after their initial moments of agony, that the nerves were deadened and that the onset of shock shut out the impulses of whatever nerve centers remained—lies.

  His vision clouded and it seemed as if the radio set on the table sat at the end of a long, dark tunnel. As if Allah watched his efforts with sympathy, the table collapsed on flaming legs. The radio fell just short of the figure struggling on the floor. The general reached out a shaking charred hand and grasped the handset connected to the transmitter. He pulled it to his mouth. Trying to speak, al-Tikriti choked. Summoning all of his remaining strength, the general managed one word before succumbing to the smoke and flames. “Attack!”

  Presidential Command Complex, West of An Najaf, Iraq

  24 October, 2300 Hours Local

  General of the Army Abunimah burst through the door leading to Abdul Aref’s private sanctum. Aref looked up in alarm, then annoyance at recognizing his chief military advisor.

  “Mr. President, I have been trying to reach you for over two hours,” said the general.

  “I have been busy. What do you require?”

  Abunimah looked at his leader in shock. “Have you not received any of the reports from the south, sir?”

  “Yes, yes . . . I know the Americans somehow struck our forces, despite your assurances that they would not be able to locate them.”

  Abunimah ignored the gibe. “Sir, you must reconsider this offensive. The Republican Guard Southern Corps headquarters is gone. . . . I must assume General al-Tikriti is dead. The Madinah and Hamourabi divisions are continuing their attack south, even though each has suffered severe losses.”

  The president watched Abunimah with dead eyes. “I am aware of this.”

  The general refused to participate longer in court intrigue. “I know you are aware of it, sir. . . . When I radioed the commanders to halt their attack and await further instructions, they informed me that you had ordered them to continue their mission—and to disregard orders to the contrary from myself or my staff!”

  “General, you are very close to overstepping your bounds. . . .”

  Face aflame with rage, General Abunimah continued. “Damn your bounds! Those are my men you so casually throw into combat! And what of the Iranians? They have not moved an inch across their border!”

  For a moment the president wavered, uncertain. Then he recovered. Aref had tried to contact Khalani for hours and had gotten nowhere. The old man had betrayed him. He threw a hand in the air and paced like a caged animal. “I do not need the Iranians. I have alerted the commanders of the First and Second Corps that they have twenty-four hours to be in position to support the two divisions in the south. I have instructed all units to prepare their artillery to fire nerve-agent munitions in support of a breakthrough—they will do so only on my release, of course.”

  “You are mad! Sending more forces south alone will give the Americans reason enough to do something drastic. If you use chemical weapons on them”—Abunimah looked at Aref, attempting to find some way of getting through to the man—“it will be the death of us all, sir. Mark my words.”

  Without taking his eyes from Abunimah, Aref reached beneath the lip of his desk and pressed the concealed button. “You are relieved, General.”

  General Abunimah knew he had failed. Reaching to each shoulder, he tore the epaulets off. First one, then the other. He threw the symbols of his rank—the rank he had worked so many years to attain—at the feet of his president. General of the Army Ali Abunimah stood at attention for the final time. “No, sir. I resign.”

  Behind them, Aref’s personal guards rushed into the room. Seeing the two men squared off against each another, they paused, uncertain.

  Aref turned to his new captain of the guards. “Major, take General Abunimah to his quarters. Allow him two minutes to gather a few possessions. Then escort him to his new lodgings . . . a cell.”

  The major in charge of the guard detail was clearly reluctant to carry out his assigned duty. Like the other soldiers who knew Abunimah, he held the general in high regard.

  Stopping outside the general’s quarters, he turned to his onetime leader. “Sir . . . take all the time you need.”

  Reaching a hand to the young officer’s shoulder, Abunimah grasped it. “Thank you, Major. I will be but a few minutes.” He turned the handle and entered the small room he called home when at Aref’s complex. As he had hoped, the major reached into the room and pulled the door closed to offer him more privacy.

  Alone, Abunimah walked across the room and past the kit bag containing his personal items. Stopping at his desk, the general looked at the phone as if it were an adder. He knew what he must do, for the ultimate survival of his men and his nation—and he hated himself for it.

  3rd Brigade, 4th ID TAC, Northern Kuwait

  24 October, 2350 Hours

  In the darkness, the two men watched with PVS-7s from the turret of the Bradley. The green landscape showed scores of armored vehicles moving rapidly across the desert.

  “You ready, O’Keefe? One last ride?” asked Jones.

  Sergeant Matt O’Keefe let the night-vision goggles fall around his neck and looked at Jones. It seemed as if he’d known the man forever. “Yes, sir. I’m ready.”

  “Okay. It’s almost midnight, time for me to check on the boys.” Patting the young NCO’s arm, Jones dropped down and moved through the Bradley’s turret and into the rear compartment. “Tom, status on the unit moves.”

  Proctor was busily annotating unit locations and statuses into his map matrix as the task force headquarters checked in one by one. He stopped and turned to Jones. “The scouts of each task force have moved out to the flanks, sir. They’re in position. The task forces report they’re twenty-five percent complete on their moves. Estimated time REDCON-One, zero three hundred hours.”

  Jones’s experienced eye looked over the map. “What about Spartan?”

  Proctor shrugged. “I spoke to Spartan Three a few minutes ago, sir. They’re ‘moving north with all due haste.’ Even with our night vision equipment, limited visibility moves take a while.”

  Jones nodded. “Yeah. SITREP on the Madinah?”

  “Still moving south. Chief Gailin is as good as his word. We’ve had eyes on them the whole way. The division contained over two hundred T-72s and one hundred BMP-2s when the UAVs picked them up four hours ago, plus their organic air defense systems and supporting artillery. As of twenty-three hundred hours, they’d sustained about twenty-five percent losses. Figure they’ve got a hundred fifty tanks and seventy-five or eighty BMPs remaining. The ATACMS strikes were followed immediately by
fixed-wing air force attack runs.” The major paused. “Sir, the bottom line is that they’re hurting, but they’re still coming.”

  “Yeah, that they are. Okay, Tom. Keep me posted. I want everything set by zero three hundred. I’m going up top to move us behind 2-77 Armor. I’m starting to feel an attachment to those boys . . . especially when bullets are flying.”

  U.S. Central Command Headquarters (Forward), Bahrain

  25 October, 0100 Hours Local

  The lieutenant colonel hung up the phone and walked to General Gus Pavlovski with a quizzical expression on his face. “Sir, I just got the strangest call from the headquarters in Tampa.”

  Pavlovski, in the middle of sifting through damage assessment photos taken following the air attacks on the Republican Guard, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He needed a break anyway. “Okay, Charlie. What kind of call?”

  Instead of answering, the colonel picked up a red pin and walked over to the map of the area of operations. After looking at the map a few moments, he stuck the pin in it and turned to face the CENTCOM commander.

  Pavlovski leaned his chair against the wall, two legs in the air. Folding his arms across his chest, he gave the colonel another moment before asking, “Well?”

  “Aref.”

  “What about him?”

  The aide reached backward, still facing the general, and pointed a finger at the red pin he’d just plunged into the map. “He’s there. We just received the coordinates for the underground complex where he’s holing up, along with all of the specs for the location—composition, depth, everything.”

  The front legs of the chair crashed to the floor. Pavlovski got up and walked over to the map, looking at the pin. “An Najaf? You’re sure?”

  “About ten kilometers west of An Najaf, actually. Am I sure? The information is very detailed, sir, and the source of the information . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “The caller claimed to be Iraq’s general of the army, Ali Abunimah.”

  Pavlovski looked puzzled. “Why would Abunimah phone Tampa, instead of here—assuming it is Abunimah.”

  “He didn’t know the number to the forward headquarters. So he called a stateside operator and had them patch him through to MacDill Air Force Base. Things have gotten kind of crazy in that bunker, sir. Aref has put Abunimah under house arrest.” The aide detailed the events that had unfolded at Aref’s secret complex.

  “Aref intends to use chemical munitions on our troops? General Abunimah is certain?”

  The aide nodded. “Sir, the deputy CINC took the call. He’s having a written report prepared for you now. It should be complete within fifteen minutes. He just wanted to give you a heads-up. The D-CINC said to pass that on for what it’s worth. He thinks this is legit.”

  Pavlovski racked his brain, trying to remember all he could about Abunimah. Attended university in England—Oxford? One of the rising stars in Iraq’s military for years. Long line of military service within his family. Loved his men. Not a politician. Now Pavlovski put himself in Abunimah’s shoes. Crazy son of a bitch in charge of his country. Said crazy SOB threatens to use chemical munitions on the U.S. U.S. would likely respond with . . . what? Given the right circumstances, he’d probably do the same thing Abunimah had. Cut off an arm to save the body.

  “I think it’s legitimate as well,” said Pavlovski. “Get the staff together.”

  After writing a few lines on a scrap sheet of paper, he handed them to the aide. “Here’s my guidance. I want to see a plan in one hour.”

  “An hour, sir?” asked the aide. That was barely long enough to get the staff together and sharpen their pencils.

  Pavlovski stood in front of the colonel and put a hand on each shoulder. He bent over to get on eye level with the shorter man. “Charlie, we don’t have much time. The battle up north is about to kick off. If Aref feels things are going wrong and authorizes those forces to use chemicals on our troops . . . well, we might not be able to talk any shit to India and Pakistan for years—understand?”

  The junior officer looked incredulous. “You think Washington would do that, sir?”

  Pavlovski shook his head and shrugged. “I don’t know, Charlie. Maybe. I’d think about it. Bombing Iraq into the Stone Age hasn’t worked in the past—we’ve tried it. And we don’t have the ground forces in theater yet for a proper invasion. Hell, we don’t have enough forces to pull Third Brigade’s shit out of the fire. How many options does that leave us, Charlie? You tell me.”

  The colonel nodded. He understood.

  “Get the staff together. I’ve got a call to make.”

  Attack Position NIRVANA, Northern Kuwait

  25 October, 0245 Hours Local

  Looking at his graphics in the soft blue light of the tank’s interior, Dillon frowned. Nirvana? And where was Task Force 2-35? Attack Position Doors? The helos . . . Queen? Couldn’t the plans guys come up with a naming scheme that didn’t involve bands with dead lead singers? Jesus. He liked Morrison as much as the next guy, but let’s face it . . . those were some morbid fucks in plans. What about the Dave Matthews Band? Dave was the man. And Culture Club—well, maybe not. American soldiers tended to lean toward the homophobic side.

  Rolling his Nomex glove down, Dillon hit the illumination button on his watch. Zero two forty-five hours. Last reports put the lead echelons of the Madinah twenty minutes out. The company was running ahead of schedule.

  He keyed his CVC to check in with the platoons.

  “Guideons, Steel Six.”

  “Red One.”

  The Goo Goo Dolls. Those guys rocked—and were alive. Then again, Attack Position Goo? Uh-uh.

  “White Four.”

  “Blue One.”

  “Guideons, Steel Six. No change to enemy E.T.A. Currently the Madinah is five kilometers out. You should start seeing hot spots to the north anytime. Weapons control status hold . . . I say again . . . hold. . . .”

  Overhead, the men of Steel heard the first artillery volleys of the night coming in. Looking south, they saw the night turn to day all along their old defensive positions as the Iraqi guns and rockets pounded the location in preparation for their attack. I hope 2-8 Infantry is still in their hide positions, thought Dillon. The plan called for them to stay back until the enemy preparatory fires lifted, then to rush forward and occupy before the Republican Guard began their assault. As always, a tough time line to call. If they had jumped the gun, they’d be caught in the open or—at best—sitting in their holes and getting punch drunk from the pounding at the BP.

  “ . . . Also, tell your tank commanders to confirm that every instrument light in their turrets and drivers’ compartments are either off or taped. They can turn them on again once the shooting starts. Call me and confirm Redcon-One once you’re there, out.”

  While he waited for confirmation that his company was ready, Dillon turned his attention to his own tank. Reaching for the knob on the right side of the turret that controlled the interior lighting, Dillon turned it down until the blue light faded, then went completely out. “Crew report.”

  “Driver’s up, driver’s instrument panel dark,” Thompson reported from the front of the tank.

  “Loader up, sabot loaded. No lights.”

  “Gunner up, sabot indexed, blackout confirmed.”

  Dillon looked around the turret, satisfied. He knew that one enemy vehicle commander or recon team with night-vision goggles could pick up the light of a single small bulb inside a tank from thousands of meters away. He’d seen units die because of such mistakes in training. He refused to let it happen for real.

  “Roger, I’m going topside. Bick, pick up a slow scan to the north.”

  “On it,” called Bickel, moving his face to his thermal imaging system.

  As Dillon stood, the turret—already oriented over the right front and to the north—slowly began moving right to left. Lifting the PVS-7s from around his neck, Dillon looked up and down the attack position. Dark. Good—wait! What the fuck was
that?

  “Red One, Steel Six.” Through the PVS-7s, the driver’s compartment of one of the First Platoon tanks looked as if a spotlight was aimed straight into the sky. Removing the PVS-7s, Dillon could see nothing. Driver’s master power light, sure as shit, thought Dillon.

  An embarrassed voice replied to Dillon’s call. “This is Red Four. I’ve got it, Six.”

  Two seconds later, the light popped out and Attack Position Nirvana plunged into darkness. To anyone approaching the position, there was nothing in the night but the desert sands and the occasional ghostly howling of the wind.

  Doc Hancock stood in the turret of C-21 and breathed in the cool night air. So much had happened to him over the past weeks. He’d gone from inexperienced lieutenant to battle-proven platoon leader. Captain Dillon even showed real faith in his abilities—that was something approaching a miracle with the Old Man. And he was in love. Good God, he still couldn’t believe that one.

  Reaching behind his hatch, Doc felt the small pad taped in place. It was only eighteen inches by eighteen inches. Sam had pulled it from a bag they’d sent on the helo picking her up. Making him promise to tape it to his tank, she’d rushed off without saying more. Sand-colored and slightly luminescent, it appeared to be some type of new recognition panel. Hancock knew the battle labs were experimenting with some new materials on the combat ID side to try to cut down the number of fratricides. Maybe she’d gotten hold of a new piece of gear? The lieutenant shrugged in the darkness. Well, if it made her feel better, he’d leave it in place.

  “Sir, I’ve got vehicles moving in from the north, vicinity Phase Line Buford, avenue of approach One!” called Bickel.

  Dropping into the turret, Dillon put his face to the sight extension. One . . . two . . . three . . . screw the counting. That was a butt load. Too far out to tell what type. Calling Estes, Dillon relayed the spot report.

  “What do you think, O’Keefe?” asked Jones.